Golden Mile to Murder (25 page)

‘Will you, indeed? Well, if I was you, I wouldn't think about it too long, Chief Inspector.'

There was the sound of the receiver being violently slammed into its cradle, and then the line went dead.

Paniatowski replaced her own receiver just as Woodend was turning to face her. The chief inspector's eyes looked troubled, and there were lines on his brow she'd never even noticed before. It came as a shock to her to see how much he could change during the course of one brief phone call.

‘Was that Mr Ainsworth?' she asked.

‘What makes you ask that?'

Paniatowski forced herself to grin. ‘I caught you saying the occasional “sir” and, being a trained detective, I worked out that you must be speaking to someone of a higher rank than you. So it was a good bet you were talking to the DCS.'

Woodend returned her grin with a weary smile of his own. ‘Aye, it was him,' he admitted.

‘Did he want anything important, sir?'

‘Not really. He was just askin' me to keep him up to speed on the investigation.'

Paniatowski turned back to the notes which lay on the desk in front of her. She almost had it cracked, she told herself. Five names – five possible hit-and-run drivers. They'd kept up a united front so far, but when she finally used the implied threat of revealing what she knew about the ‘entertainment' – when they realised that their wives might learn what they'd been up to their boys' night out – one of them would break ranks and give her the name of the guilty party. All she needed was a little more time – and Woodend had completely surprised her by buying that time for her. But at what cost, both to his investigation and to his position in the Central Lancs police?

You have to have confidence in your team
, he'd said.

And he'd been talking about her!

‘I've been reviewing my notes, sir,' she said, across the empty room.

‘Have you now? An' have you come up with any conclusions?'

‘Yes, I have. I now think that I was quite wrong in what I said earlier. There
is
no connection between the hit-and-run case and Mr Davies' murder. I'd be much more valuable to the team following another line of investigation.'

Woodend gave have a long stare which seemed to be reaching down right into the depths of her soul.

‘I wish you'd told me that about five minutes ago,' he said. ‘You're sure you've got it right this time?'

‘Yes, sir. I'm sure.'

Woodend picked up the phone. ‘Could you get me Chief Superintendent Ainsworth in Whitebridge Headquarters, please?' he asked the switchboard operator.

And suddenly Monika Paniatowski knew that she was not brave enough at that moment to hear a second conversation between the man who had trusted her and the other man who seemed hell-bent on destroying him. Feeling both ashamed and confused, she rose from her desk and tiptoed to the door.

It was almost nine o'clock when Monika entered Dutton's OBJ Tavern and saw Frank Hanson – a welcoming smile on his face – waiting for her at a corner table.

As Paniatowski flopped into the seat opposite him, Hanson, noticing her anxious look, and his smile transformed itself into concern. ‘Want to talk about it?' he asked sympathetically.

‘You did a good piece of work for me this morning,' Monika said tiredly. ‘I'm almost convinced that one of the last five men to leave the Palace Hotel is guilty of manslaughter.'

‘But –?'

‘But Mr Woodend's in charge of investigating
two
murders now, and they have to take precedence over anything else.'

‘You've changed your tune,' Hanson said.

‘I know I have,' Paniatowski admitted. ‘Or maybe I've just finally heard somebody else's tune, and decided it's my job to dance to it.'

‘I've never been very good at riddles,' Hanson said. ‘Would you mind explaining that particular one to me?'

‘Not tonight. I'm a bit too confused to even explain it to myself.'

The waiter came over and deposited the vodka Paniatowski had ordered on the table.

Hanson paid for it. ‘You need something to take you out of yourself,' he said. ‘How about a spot of dancing at the Tower Ballroom?'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Come on,' Hanson said encouragingly. ‘I know you don't want to take me on because you've noticed I've got feet the size of coal barges – but appearances can be deceptive. I have it from a number of sources that dancing with me is like walking on air.'

Paniatowski reached across the table and touched his hand. ‘It's not you,' she said. ‘It's me. The mood I'm in tonight, I wouldn't be any fun.'

‘So there's no chance you'll be coming back to my flat for a nightcap?'

‘I'm afraid not. I need some time on my own – time to think things through.'

‘Is this a brush-off?' Hanson asked. ‘Because I'm a big boy now, and if that's what it is, there's no need to sugar the pill.'

‘It's
nothing
like that,' Paniatowski assured him. ‘Look, Frank, I don't know how things are going to turn out with us, but maybe once the case is closed we'll be able to get a clearer picture.'

‘So there's a chance that what we had could turn out to be more than a one-night stand?'

‘A good chance. But I'm afraid you're going to have to be patient.' Monika paused. ‘I'm asking a lot, aren't I?'

‘Yes, you are,' Hanson agreed. ‘But if a thing's worth having, it's worth waiting for. And you, Detective Sergeant Paniatowski, are worth a long, long wait.'

F
rom his table in the breakfast room of the Sea View Hotel, Woodend looked across the road at the uniformed constable who was leaning against the cast-iron railings which ran along the promenade.

‘Is something wrong, sir?' asked Monika Paniatowski, as she finished off her fry-up with a gusto Bob Rutter could never have hoped to emulate.

‘Wrong?' Woodend repeated abstractly.

‘Yes. You seem to have something on your mind this morning.'

Woodend took an automatic sip of his tea. ‘Have you ever seen a bobby on duty over there on the sea front before?' he asked.

‘Can't say I have,' Paniatowski admitted.

‘Me neither,' Woodend said thoughtfully. ‘So I wonder what the bugger's doin' there now.'

There was a second uniformed constable positioned on the promenade at the corner of Barton Avenue, and a third a little further down. It was when he saw the fourth, posted near St Chad's Road, that Woodend decided he had had enough.

The constable noticed him crossing the road and turned to look towards the Pleasure Beach. He was still looking at it – gazing at the Big Wheel with a fixed intensity – when the man in the hairy sports jacket drew level with him.

‘What's this all about, son?' Woodend asked.

‘I beg your pardon, sir?' the constable said, trying to act as if Woodend's approach had taken him by surprise – and failing miserably.

‘When you called me “sir” just now, were you bein' polite to a member of the general public – or were you givin' rank its due?' Woodend asked.

The constable looked confused – as well he might.

‘I . . . I . . .' he spluttered.

‘You know who I am, don't you?' Woodend demanded.

‘Y-yes, sir. I . . .'

‘But I don't know who you are. Have we been introduced?'

‘No, sir. You . . . you must have been pointed out to me in the canteen.'

‘Bollocks!' Woodend told him, and before the hapless constable had time to reply, he turned and walked away.

They were watching him, Woodend thought as he walked along the sands. They were bloody well watching him. And not only that, but they were making no secret about it. They wanted him to know he was being observed – wanted him to be intimidated by the fact. Well, sod them! He'd solved more murders than the local flatfeet had had hot dinners, and he wasn't about to let them stop him solving this one.

He took the steps down to the beach. Let the buggers follow him along the sands if they wanted to. Let them find out for themselves what effect the sight of three or four uniformed bobbies would have on the packed ranks of holidaymakers who associated bobbies with summonses for having no lights on their bikes or passing illegal betting slips – and who had come to Blackpool to get away from that kind of thing.

Just ahead of him, he saw the Punch and Judy booth he'd noticed a couple of days earlier. Two or three dozen kids were sitting cross-legged in front of it, waiting for the show to start, and Woodend saw no reason why he shouldn't join them – if only to see a nosy uniformed policeman puppet get a pasting!

The grotesque Mr Punch appeared above the parapet and bobbed around. ‘Hello, hello, hello,' he screeched at the top of his thin voice.

‘Hello, hello, hello,' his young audience screamed back.

Punch's wife, Judy, entered from the left. ‘What's all this noise, Mr Punch?' she demanded.

A sound of crying came from off-stage. Judy looked towards it, and then back at Mr Punch. ‘I do believe you've woken the baby,' she complained.

‘Oh no, I haven't!' Punch protested.

‘Oh yes, you have!' shouted Judy, and her young audience joined in with cries that, yes, he had.

‘Oh no, I haven't!'

‘Oh yes, you have!'

His earlier irritation vanishing, Woodend felt a broad grin come to his face. It was like being in the time machine again, he thought. Little Charlie Woodend, sitting on the sand and ignoring the fact that the sun was burning his legs – though he knew he would pay for it later. The Punch and Judy show had seemed nothing short of a miracle back then. But that was before the days of television. He wondered how much longer shows like this would survive now that there was a box in the corner of the living-room that seemed able to deliver so much more.

Judy disappeared for a second, and returned holding a swaddled bundle in her arms.

‘The baby
is
crying,' she told Punch, ‘and now I'm going to make
you
take care of it.' She handed the bundle over to him, then turned to the audience. ‘Now boys and girls, I want you to make sure that Mr Punch looks after the baby properly. If he doesn't, you will call me, won't you?'

‘Yes,' shouted the children – and one middle-aged adult in a hairy sports jacket.

The baby continued to cry after Judy had left the stage. Punch looked down at it. ‘What a cross baby you are,' he said.

Some of the children were already calling for Judy to come to the rescue, but Woodend did not join them. Instead, he had fallen into a thoughtful silence.

‘Naughty baby!' Punch screamed. ‘Naughty, naughty baby. Do shut up! Do shut up!'

Woodend stood frozen to the spot, cursing his own stupidity. The indications had all been there, he told himself, and he had seen the Punch and Judy show often enough to know it backwards. He should have made the right connection long ago!

The puppet baby was still crying loudly. In exasperation, Punch banged its head on the playboard and threw it out of the booth. The children were calling for Judy even louder now, but when she appeared Woodend was not there to see her, because the chief inspector was already striding at a furious pace towards the promenade.

Edna Davies opened her front door to find the chief inspector from Whitebridge standing awkwardly on the step.

‘What is it this time?' she asked.

‘I've got a few more questions I need to ask you,' Woodend told her. ‘I'm afraid they're goin' to be rather painful ones.'

‘It wasn't exactly easy talking to you the last time,' the widow countered.

‘Last time all we were talkin' about was the few days before your husband's death,' Woodend said. ‘This time, we're goin' to have to go back a lot further.'

Mrs Davies' shoulders slumped. ‘You know,' she said.

‘I've guessed,' Woodend replied. ‘But I still need you to fill in some of the details.'

Edna Davies nodded, resignedly. ‘What, exactly, do you want to know?'

‘Your daughter, Susan, wasn't born backward, was she?'

‘No,' Edna Davies admitted. ‘She wasn't.'

‘But she was a difficult baby. Always cryin' – never letting up even for a second.'

Mrs Davies put her hands on her hips as, in a split second, resignation turned to fury.

‘Is that what you think?' she demanded angrily. ‘Do you really think that Bill abused his own baby – just because she wouldn't keep quiet?'

‘That isn't what happened?'

‘No, it isn't what bloody happened. He dropped her, all right?! He lost his grip on her and she landed on her head. There was brain damage.'

Woodend believed her. Inspector Davies had never beaten his daughter, as he'd initially suspected, but the fact that he had dropped her had been enough for police humour – made harsh by its daily contact with the worst kinds of reality – to christen him Mr Punch.

‘You don't blame him?' Woodend asked.

‘Of course I blame him!' Mrs Davies replied, almost screaming. ‘How could I not blame him! He'd been drinking.'

‘Was he drunk?'

‘No,' the woman replied. ‘He'd just had enough to make sure that he couldn't take proper care of my sweet little angel.' Tears were welling up in her eyes. ‘He tried his best to make up for it. He was a perfect father after that. He'd show Susan more patience than I could ever have managed. But it was all a bit too bloody late then, wasn't it?'

‘I'm sorry,' Woodend said. ‘If there's anything I can do –'

‘You've got what you wanted,' the widow told him. ‘You've heard what a mess Bill made of all our lives. Now will you please just go.'

She was right, Woodend thought. There was nothing more he could say – no consolation he could offer her. He turned and made his way quickly down the garden path and out on to the street.